


How We Fit

by teaandjumpers



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Comic-Con, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 2013 Comic-Con, Jensen meets a man named Barrowman and contemplates the eighth wonder that is Misha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We Fit

Jensen had gotten the text from Misha twenty minutes ago. _I’m coming up_ , it had said. _Need quiet_. Jensen was lounging on his hotel room’s couch, shoes kicked off as he flexed his feet. The _Supernatural_ conventions were one thing. They were a contained sort of crazy, and despite the shenanigans that typically transpired, he always felt like he had some control. He felt less of that at Comic Con. It could have had something to do with the near deafening wall of screams that greeted him every time he walked onto the stage in Hall H. Overwhelming didn’t cover it. The cheers he was graced with, somehow always made him feel smaller than himself. Those cheers weren’t for him. Not really. They were for Dean, and he knew a time would come, maybe a few years from now or maybe ten, when those cheers would die down, when their events would cater to a smaller group, and when the character of Dean would be a role listed on his resume, filed under Previous Work. 

So Jensen never took any of it for granted. He knew that one day, all of it, the adulation, the luxury rooms, the comfort of working on a set with a cast and crew you trusted implicitly, would be gone. And it was that last one that kept him awake some nights. He felt the pangs of nostalgia already, creeping up when he least expected it. When Dean was given a line that referred back to some random thread from the first season. When they retired one of Dean’s jackets because it had grown too frayed. When a cast member left, their character left for dead. 

He couldn’t imagine a life in which Jared and Misha weren’t a constant, and he had started to feel like a sentimental high school student when he walked on set, like he was getting ready for his last year.

Jensen shook his head. He couldn’t be sulking when Misha arrived. The other man would want to wheedle whatever was bothering him out of him, and Jensen was in no mood to discuss his feelings. 

He had barely seen Misha in the past few days. He seemed to have an endless list of group meetups and interviews, and their brief panel together and the solo interviews that came after gave them little time to catch up. 

Thirty minutes had passed when a knock sounded at Jensen’s door. When he opened it, he was surprised to find that Misha hadn’t come alone. He had brought Mark and another man with him. Mark patted Jensen on the shoulder as he strode into the room and made his way to the snack bar. The other man was white, tall as Misha, with dark brown hair, and a semi-crooked smile that made the man look a little like Tom Cruise.

“So,” the man said as he sauntered into the room, “you’re the one who my makeup ladies over at _Arrow_ are always fawning over. They say you couldn’t photoshop a person that beautiful.”

Jensen had long ago schooled himself not to blush when someone mentioned his looks, so he held out a hand to the other man and introduced himself.

“Jensen,” he said, shooting Misha a side-glance. His costar was standing at the patio door, overlooking the Gaslamp Quarter. It was the first thing Misha did whenever he came into any hotel room—he’d look at the view.

The man took his offered hand and held it between both of his, keeping his eyes fixed on Jensen’s as he gave him a slow, firm handshake. “You have,” the man said, pulling Jensen closer to him, “the most gorgeous eyelashes. They’re unreal.”

Now, Jensen _did_ feel a blush creeping up his cheeks, and he mumbled a quick thank you. “They’re imported,” he said, trying to play off his embarrassment. 

“Let him go, Barrowman,” Misha said from beside him, his voice low and wrecked, probably from trying to yell over the calls of fans. 

The man, Barrowman, finally let go, but not before giving Jensen a wink. Mark had already settled in one of the suite’s coaches. He had popped open a can of peanuts from the snack bar and was happily munching away on nuts, a handful of them at a time. 

“I’ll reimburse you for these,” Mark said, holding up the can to Jensen. 

Jensen nodded at him, and his gaze shifted back to Barrowman, who had taken a seat next to Mark. Misha had plopped down next to Jensen, grabbing Jensen’s phone from his hand and fiddling with it. 

“Battery’s dead,” he had explained.

Jensen guarded his privacy fiercely. He threw a fit whenever Jared snatched his phone, because the guy would go through his contacts and send off lewd messages from Jensen. Misha, prankster that he was, never did that with Jensen’s phone. Jensen never asked him why.

His gaze returned to Barrowman, who was regarding him with a curious expression, his gaze moving from Jensen to Misha then back to Jensen. “You know,” the man said. “I’m done with the BBC. The CW really knows how to cast the pretty ones. I mean, my god, man.”

“John,” Misha warned from beside him, eyes never leaving Jensen’s phone. “What would Scott say?”

The man, John, (which seemed too common a name for someone so flamboyant), didn’t miss a beat. “He’d say, ‘yes,’” he said to Misha, then turned back to Jensen. “But he wouldn’t say it to your face because he’s shy.” 

Jensen snorted. He looked to Misha, who had a small smile playing on his lips. It looked like he was on twitter, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Jensen couldn’t imagine putting his life up on display the way Misha. He loved the fans, was eternally grateful for their support, but he didn’t want to invite them into every aspect of his life. And truthfully, when you got past the hijinks that they got up to on the set, the press junkets, and the conventions, Jensen’s life was fairly bland. He didn’t corral groups of people the way Misha did or have wild parties like Jared did. He spent time with his family. Had barbeques. Watched sports. Compared to his castmates, he didn’t consider himself very interesting. 

“What do you say, beautiful?” Barrowman said, continuing a conversation that Jensen had checked out of. “You, me, my lovely husband.”

Jensen nearly choked on his own spit. He cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. “Flattered as I am,” he said, “Threesomes are more Misha’s territory.”

Barrowman’s gaze snapped to Misha, who was presently leveling an unamused glare at Jensen.

“Is that so,” said Barrowman with nearly unbridled glee. “Do tell.”

Mark was watching the entire exchange with mild interest. “And I thought Captain Jack, was bad,” Mark muttered. Jensen didn’t get the reference, but he didn’t think on it too long, not with Misha’s body language closing up, relaxed demeanor slipping away, as he returned Jensen’s phone and rose.

Jensen felt momentarily guilty. The subject was one (one of the few) that Misha didn’t bring up readily. He’d answer a few questions about it when he was drunk and someone was adamant, but for the most part he was very tight-lipped about the other person who he and his wife had shared their lives with for months. 

Misha strode towards the double glass doors that overlooked the city. “It wasn’t a threesome,” he said. “It was a polyamorous relationship.”

Jensen watched Misha from his seat, noting how the other man’s gaze was fixed downwards, eyes flicking back and forth, no doubt tracking the huddled masses of convention goers below. Jensen was glad to leave the convention center and the crowd below. Through the years, he’d grown more comfortable with large groups of people, everything from award shows, press conferences, conventions and the like forcing him to do so. As it was, he still never seemed to be able to relax or even feed off of the attention the way Misha and Jared did.

“Man or a woman?” Barrowman asked, breaking Dean out of his silent musings. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Misha said, shifting his gaze back to Barrowman, his tone and demeanor once again playful. 

The two continued that way for a while, shamelessly flirting and trying to upstage the other with their remarks. Jensen checked out of their conversation, and thought back to Misha’s answer, rather, his lack of an answer. He didn’t think the person’s sex was why Misha didn’t answer. Jensen guessed that whoever the person was, he or she must have meant a lot to Misha. 

Jensen often found himself wondering what type of person could have that effect on Misha. Misha, who seemed so solid and unaffected, indiscriminately throwing out smiles and some deep, personal tidbit about his life to whoever crossed his path. Jensen kind of hated the person and he knew how absurd that was, hating someone you’d never met, never heard of, and, really, have no cause to hate. 

And Jensen found himself confronted, yet again, with the fact that he _cared_ for Misha. Maybe a little more—a lot more than he should. Which scared him for a thousand different reasons, but puzzled him too, because in another world, under different circumstances, Jensen wasn’t certain he and Misha would ever have had the chance to hit it off, let alone bond the way they have. He and Misha were at opposite ends of the spectrum. If they were in high school, they would probably be at opposite ends of the cafeteria.

A can of peanuts appeared in Jensen’s line of vision, and he looked up to find Mark standing above him, can of peanuts in hand.

“Nuts?” Mark asked innocently, shaking the can so that the peanuts rattled against the tin. 

Jensen declined, and Mark nodded, saying he’d better be off. He had another signing to get to. Barrowman said he’d join him, saying he had a few interviews scheduled in the convention hall. 

He extended his hand out to Jensen, shaking it with both hands again. “It really was a pleasure,” he said, and his voice was sincere, not a hint of innuendo in it. 

“You too, man,” Jensen said, returning the other man’s smile. “See you around.”

“I’ll catch you later, Collins,” the man told Misha. 

Misha gave Barrowman a salute and flopped onto Jensen’s bed. He spread his arms out on the sheets and dragged them up and down, as if he were making snow angels. “Nice,” he said to himself. 

Jensen strode over near the bed, leaning back on the back end of the sofa. He let his gaze rake over Misha, his loose-fitting jeans, the plaid shirt, that ridiculous, puffed-up vest he had taken to wearing lately. He looked like some nature preservationist. Jensen thought that would be something Misha would probably do, if his acting didn’t take off. There was a long list of things Jensen could see Misha doing. He was one of those people, those multi-talented people who had their hands in everything. It never ceased to amaze Jensen. 

"Did you love him?" Jensen asked, not bothering to mention who or what he was talking about. He didn't know why he thought the other person was a he, but he was almost certain. 

Misha sighed, shutting his eyes as he spoke. "I cared for him--," he paused and corrected himself. "We cared for him a lot. But things changed. We wanted a kid. I got on the show. He changed. Vicki changed. _I_ changed."

Jensen nodded slowly, more to himself than Misha, who still had his eyes closed. He remembered reuniting with his family after they finished filming season five, and how his father had pulled him aside and told him, "you've changed."

When Jensen asked him what he meant, his old man just shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. You just seem lighter."

He didn't think much of it at the time, but he had spent a fair share of time thinking about it since. Especially since he attributed much of that change to the man laid out before him.

“You think we would’ve been friends?” Jensen finally asked, eyes fixed on the sliver of exposed skin just above Misha’s belt. He dragged his gaze upwards. Misha was sitting up on his elbows, looking up at Jensen with curiosity. 

“Come again,” he said.

“Friends,” Jensen repeated. “Like, if we went to school together, would we have been friends?”

Misha regarded Jensen for a moment, his head tilting to the side in a manner reminiscent of Cas. “Why would you ask that,” Misha asked.

Jensen ran a hand over the hair on his neck. “I don’t know. We’re just so different. I feel—”

Misha snorted at that. “You think we’re different, Jen,” he said, lying back and staring up at the ceiling. “But we’re not. You were in the same school plays, same school musicals. We’d probably spend our school lunches together harmonizing outside of the choral room.”

Jensen snorted. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I’d probably be eating lunch with the baseball team.”

Misha sat up on his elbows again, regarding Jensen with no small amount of scrutiny. “Baseball,” he repeated. “Figures.”

“See,” said Jensen. “Different.”

“I’ll have you know,” said Misha, “that I was in cross country and my calves were the envy of the entire tenth grade.”

Misha did have nice calves, Jensen had to admit. He had nice thighs, too. Jensen remembered a day on set when Misha strode in wearing his running shorts and a fitted t-shirt. Jared had let out a long whistle at the sight of him, and Jensen had, silently, agreed with his costar's assessment. 

“Face it, Jen,” said Misha, “Get a few drinks in you, strip you down, and you’re me.” 

Jensen looked down at Misha, at the way he was sprawled across _his_ bed, leaving himself open to Jensen, the same way he left himself open to everyone, letting anyone who wanted a piece to take one.

“I’m not,” said Jensen, voice low.

“Certainly, you lack my verbosity and my poetry,” Misha said, ignoring Jensen, his gaze on the ceiling again, “but that’s negligible.”

“I’m not you,” Jensen said, and there must have been an edge to his voice, because Misha glanced up at him and regarded him with a somber stare. 

Jensen felt his fingers twitch, and before he knew what he was doing, he found himself on the bed, perched above Misha as he pinned the other man’s hands above his head, wanting to elicit something new, something different from the man.

“Well, this isn’t part of our regularly scheduled programming,” Misha said, blinking up at Jensen as the rest of his body stayed perfectly still.

Jensen continued to hold Misha down. “You give everyone whatever they ask,” said Jensen, surprised by the force in his own voice, at how angry he was. He didn’t know why he cared. Misha wasn’t his. Misha didn’t owe him anything. And so what if the guy wanted to lay out his entire life for the masses to see. It was his business. 

“I do,” Misha confirmed, his voice leveled. His gaze flitted backwards to where Jensen held his wrists. “Clearly, that bothers you.” 

Jensen inhaled deeply. “Why do you do it?”

“Because they ask nicely,” Misha said, smirking up at Jensen. 

Jensen paused, considered Misha for a moment, smirk and all, and said. “And if I ask nicely?” 

Misha locked eyes with Jensen, his piercing blue eyes searching Jensen’s. When he spoke, his voice was considerably lower than before. “Depends on what you ask for,” he said.

Jensen didn’t bother asking. He swept down and captured Misha’s lips with his own, parting them deftly and slipping his tongue inside the wet warmth of Misha’s mouth. Misha moaned into Jensen, his body bucking up off the bed and pressing against Jensen. 

Jensen pulled back and looked down as Misha slowly fluttered his eyes open. “You didn’t ask me anything,” Misha said, his voice raw and wrecked. 

“Alright,” said Jensen, releasing his hold on Misha and letting his hands rake down the front of Misha’s thighs. “Misha,” he began, giving the man’s jean-clad thighs a squeeze, “Can I—I—”

Jensen knew exactly what he wanted to say. _Can I fuck you senseless. Can I come inside you. Can I make you scream my name as you ride my cock ._ But the words wouldn’t make it past his tongue. 

Misha took pity on him, rising up off the bed and flipping Jensen over so that Misha was on top. He braced his hands on Jensen’s chest and ground his hips against the other man’s. “Can you fuck me?” he rasped. “Is that what you want to ask me, Jensen.” He rubbed himself against Jensen once more. “Wanna fuck me, Jensen?”

Jensen groaned a frustrated yes. “Yes. Fuck. Fuck I want to fuck you, Mish. So bad.” Overcome with want, Jensen didn’t know what he was saying anymore, and he was sure that he’d be blushing like crazy if he wasn’t so concerned with getting any part of Misha, mouth, ass, whichever, wrapped around his cock. 

Jensen’s words sent Misha to work, and he quickly divested himself and Jensen of their pants and undergarments. He leapt off of the bed and promptly returned with a bottle of lotion, his own lotion, Jensen noted, which meant that Misha went through his things, another breach of privacy, but he didn't give a fuck. Misha dispensed a generous amount of the lotion into his palm and wrapped his hand around Jensen’s erect cock. 

Jensen jerked off of the bed, leaning up into Misha’s touch, those rough hands, and their eager slide up and down Jensen’s hardened length. Misha steadied Jensen’s hips in their mad scramble to make contact with Misha’s flesh. “Fucking tease,” Jensen gritted out.

Misha gave Jensen a small glare for that, just before he positioned himself above Jensen’s cock, and sunk down the length of the other man. He took him in slowly, inch by inch, until he had enveloped all of Jensen, that warm heat making Jensen’s toes curl. Misha started to move at a leisurely pace, one hand braced on Jensen’s abdomen and the other clenching his own thigh. Misha started to moan as he moved, loudly, moaning the words “fuck,” “yes,” “so good,” “so perfect,” and “fuck, Jen—I want you to bend me over a fence and fuck me till everything burns white.”

That last one was a touch poetic, and Jensen had to commend Misha for it, especially when it looked like his costar was completely lost in the thrall of riding his cock.

“I knew you’d be like this,” Jensen said, thrusting up into Misha, hands coming up to grip the other man’s hips. “I knew you’d be loud." Jensen said, throwing his head back. "That you’d talk.”

Misha didn’t respond. Instead, he redoubled his efforts, bearing down on Jensen with more force, the slap of their skin and Misha’s growing mewls loud in the hotel room. The other man clenched Jensen’s girth as he slid up, only to loosen his muscles as snapped his hips back down. He quickened his pace, repeating the motions three, four times, until Jensen began to feel the heat mount in his cock, and the last bit of control he had slipped away as he came inside Misha in unrelenting torrents, thrusting up into the man as he cursed, “fuck,” “yes,” “so good,” and “fuck, Mish.”

“Yeah,” said Misha, moving off of Jensen and “Nothing like me.” He got up off the bed, and retrieved the bottle of lotion, removing his shirt as he did so. 

He poured more lotion into his hand, grabbing his own cock now, and pumping it as he perched over Jensen. “If we went to school together, Jen,” Misha said, his breath ragged, “I’d jerk you off under the table in chem class. I’d suck you off during half-time. I’d write you poems and leave them in your locker. I’d take you under the bleachers and—”

And Jensen didn’t get to hear the end of that lovely thought, because Misha’s hands jerked and he came in messy spurts over Jensen’s lower half. When he finished, he collapsed next to Jensen, one hand lazily drifting through the mess of come on Jensen’s abdomen. 

“You’d write me a poem?” Jensen asked, looking at Misha from the corner of his eye. 

Misha gave him a lazy nod. “Poems. Plural. Books of poems. One for each body part, one for each eyelash…”

And Misha was off, and Jensen was left, again, trying to figure out how and if they fit together, and idly wondering if Misha could maybe explain it to him in a poem.

**Author's Note:**

> First crack at cockles, so feedback would be greatly appreciated since I don't even know what I was trying to say with this fic. If you can enlighten me, that would be excellent.


End file.
